


leave me blurry

by steelplatedhearts



Series: we are all just trying to be holy [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 11:07:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1467250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelplatedhearts/pseuds/steelplatedhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s okay, little soldier,” Helena says, getting to her feet. He casts his eyes around, but he’s in the loft. Pierce is not here, and neither are his scientists. “You’re safe. You are with your family now.” She approaches him again, hands out. “So much shouting. <em>Sestra</em> is here.” He lets her take his hand, lets her pull him down and stroke his hair. “They didn’t want you,” she says softly. “But we are family. We are both unwanted. I will take care of you, <em>brata</em>.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	leave me blurry

“Do you want to hear a story, James Buchanan Barnes?”

He wants to say no, but there wouldn’t be a point. If Helena wants to tell him a story, she will. He’s learned that well enough.

“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess,” she starts. “Most beautiful princess in the land. Everyone loved her very much.” She pauses and rips a stray thread off of her shirt. “There was also a robot. He was very old and very dirty, but still very kind.” She ties the thread into his hair. “The princess and the robot lived up in a tower, far, far, away from everyone else. A vicious, fire-breathing dragon guarded the tower, so the princess and the robot could never leave. They were alone, but they were very happy together.”

She trails off, picks a few more threads off her shirt, and ties chunks of his hair out of his face. He waits patiently. She’ll talk again when she’s ready.

“One day, the princess and the robot decided to run away,” she says finally. “To see the world. They just had to get past the dragon first. Sadly, the dragon was too fast and too strong. He roasted them to a crisp and ate them. They were delicious.”

“That’s not really a happy ending,” he says.

She shrugs. “It’s happy for the dragon.”

*   *   *   *   *  

The first night after he meets her, he sits in the old abandoned loft building Helena’s been squatting in, his back to the wall, and keeps his eyes on her. She does the same across the room, flipping a small knife over and over in her hands. They do not break eye contact.

“So, James Buchanan Barnes,” she says, voice low. “What now?”

“I don’t trust you enough to let my guard down,” he says. “And you don’t trust me.”

“So what,” she scoffs. “We just don’t sleep?”

“I guess so,” he says.

“You aren’t going to kill me,” she says. “We are the same.”

“How do you figure?”

“They made you pretty,” she says. “Pretty and shiny and deadly. And now they don’t want you anymore. Now nobody wants you. You don’t have a family. Just like me.” She smiles slightly, then puts her knife down and curls up into a ball. “Goodnight, James Buchanan Barnes. Have sweet dreams of light.”

Every instinct he has is screaming at him to leave, to go back to base, to kill the girl and await further instructions.

He ignores his instincts.

*   *   *   *   *  

He starts frequenting the Smithsonian, going back to the Captain America exhibit over and over again, hoping that maybe this time he’ll remember, he’ll feel that jolt of recognition.

Once, Helena comes with him, a bag of stolen tootsie roll pops in her arms. She offers him a blue one, and he declines. She shrugs, eating it herself.

“He’s your family,” she says, studying a picture of Captain Rogers closely. “Isn’t he?”

He stares up at the video of the stranger wearing his face and sighs. “I don’t know.”

“He’s light,” she says, tilting her head. “Pretty golden sunshine. Brave soldier boy.”

“What would you know about it?” he snaps. She smirks, biting down on the pop, breaking it in half.

“As much as you do, apparently,” she says. She stands on her tiptoes, brushing his hair off his face. “Empty,” she says, staring in his ear. “Very sad.”

He pushes her away, doesn’t feel bad when she stumbles and hits the ground hard. “Sad little shell,” she says from the floor, looking down. “James Buchanan Barnes is just a ghost.”

“Shut up.”

We can be ghosts together,” she says quickly. He stares, and she gets up hesitantly, grabbing on to the hem of his sleeve, petting his arm like she’s desperate to appease him. “You are a shell, and I don’t exist. We have to stick together, _da_? _Ty miy brata. Miy pryvyd brata.”_

He pulls his sleeve out of her grasp, and she flinches away. “Okay,” he says, rather uncomfortably. “We stick together.”

*   *   *   *   *  

He does not like to be called Bucky.

Bucky implies a relationship he doesn’t have, a person he isn’t. Bucky implies memories, a history, people who care for him.

The person he is deserves none of that.

Helena calls him James Buchanan Barnes, the full name, every time. Sometimes she calls him _brata_ , or robot, or little soldier, but for the most part, she sticks with James Buchanan Barnes. It doesn’t feel like it belongs to him, but it’s more comfortable than Bucky.

So he allows James Buchannan Barnes, and _brata_ , and robot, and little soldier. At least she’s never tried Bucky.

*   *   *   *   *  

He sleeps deep, lost in a sea of blurry recollections. Sometimes he sees Mr. Pierce, telling him that he’s been useful. He sees Captain Rogers, face bloody and battered, refusing to fight. Sometimes, he gets vague snatches of old-fashioned soldiers, ancient hospital rooms, and pain.

The pain comes through the clearest. Sometimes it’s his arm, and sometimes it’s his head, but the screams are all the same.

Tonight, he’s lost in a haze of reprogramming. He’s cold, so cold, almost frozen, and his head is on fire. Pierce is hovering over him, repeating the same thing: _your work is a gift. Your work is a gift. Your work is a gift_.

 _You’re my friend_ , he hears from someplace he can’t see, and he screams. A hand closes around his wrist, and he reacts on instinct, sitting up and throwing his assailant across the room.

“It’s okay, little soldier _,_ ” Helena says, getting to her feet. He casts his eyes around, but he’s in the loft. Pierce is not here, and neither are his scientists. “You’re safe. You are with your family now.” She approaches him again, hands out. “So much shouting. _Sestra_ is here.” He lets her take his hand, lets her pull him down and stroke his hair. “They didn’t want you,” she says softly. “But we are family. We are both unwanted. I will take care of you, _brata_.”

He doesn’t push her away, doesn’t fight back, even though every muscle in his body is tensed and on high alert. If she wanted to hurt him, she would have done so by now. Instead, she just pets him, singing what sounds like a disjointed lullaby in Ukrainian.

“I will protect you,” she says. “And god will protect me.”

He doesn’t quite believe her, but _she_ believes her. That’s enough for now.

*   *   *   *   *  

Helena has two stray cats already—an angry grey one that’s missing an eye, who she calls Sarah, and a tiny black one that’s named Kira.

“So am I a stray cat, then?” he asks, trying to entice Sarah closer with a bit of ham. She’s suspicious, but takes a few hesitant steps closer. “Another animal you brought back?”

“Cats used to be worshipped as gods,” Helena says, scratching Kira behind the ears. “Nothing wrong with being a cat. But you’re not here as a cat, you’re here as family.”

“You talk a lot about family,” he says, watching her carefully. She shrugs, avoiding eye contact.

“I had family once. Maggie, and Tomas. They didn’t want me anymore. Then I had a sister. She didn’t want me either.”

She’s trying too hard to make it sound casual. He can tell.

“What about you?” she asks. “Did you have family?”

He thinks of Captain Rogers. _You’re my friend. I’m with you until the end of the line._

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you have family now,” she says, like she’s proclaiming a law. “Family is forever. No need to go without.”

She smiles broadly at him, and he smiles halfheartedly back.

*   *   *   *   *  

“I want to go shopping,” she announces one morning.

She’s staring at him like it requires a response, so he shrugs. “Fine. Go shopping.”

“You have to come with me,” she says, exasperated. “You have to hold my purse and tell me I look pretty.”

“You don’t have a purse.”

She narrows her eyes. “You have to come with me.”

So he does.

It’s a fundamentally strange experience, standing outside of a dressing room while Helena tries on clothes that neither of them can afford. He’s on alert, expecting an attack that doesn’t seem like it’s going to come. Helena is singing to herself and talking to the people in adjacent rooms. He doesn’t know what’s expected of him, how he should behave, and Helena seems to have a vague idea of how the world works in theory, but not a clue of how to act in reality.

“Which do you like better?” she asks him, modeling a bright blue sundress. “This one, or the pink one?”

As far back as he can remember, nobody has ever asked his opinion on anything.

“Try the yellow one,” he hears himself saying, from very far away. “It’s probably a better color for you.”

Helena looks pleased. He’s said the right thing.

Everything in this world without Pierce is a choice. What do you want to eat, when do you want to sleep, what do you want to wear, where do you want to go, what do you want to do. He doesn’t like living without orders, and he might never like it. So far, everything Helena does can be reframed as an order, but it won’t last. Or maybe it will. He’s not really sure of how anything will work anymore.

Helena emerges, the yellow dress draped over her shoulder, and motions to him to follow her. They stop in the craft department, pick up a box of paint pens, and she’s ready to go.

Helena is not subtle, and walks directly past the counter, her arms full of unpaid merchandise. An employee stops her, and she headbutts him. Things go downhill very quickly from there.

In the end, he scoops her up and bolts, weaving in and out of customers and undertrained security guards. He doesn’t slow down until they’re a mile from the store.

“Brave little robot,” Helena says, delighted, and wraps one arm around his neck to pull herself up and kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”

He puts her down and she loops her arm around his metallic one, dragging him towards their loft. It isn’t until they’ve gone three blocks that he realizes nobody ordered him to help Helena. He did it all on his own power, by his own choice, because he wanted to.

It wasn’t so bad, but he’d still prefer an order.

*   *   *   *   *  

When he wakes up from his latest nightmare, Helena is curled up in the corner of the room, a piece of her hair in her mouth, writing on the wall.

“You knit me together in my mother’s womb,” she mutters. “I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”

She looks at what she’s written and scribbles it out angrily. “Scientists knit me together. _Scientists_.” She sniffles. “Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.”

“Helena?” he asks cautiously. She whips her head around and stares at him, eyes blank.

“Leave me alone, robot,” she says dully. “Go back to your sunshine.”

It’s an order.

*   *   *   *   *  

Helena brings home another stray cat, only this time it’s a well-fed tabby who he suspects might not actually be a stray.

“For you,” she says. “He needs a name.”

He takes the cat, who doesn’t seem concerned about possibly being kidnapped, and scratches carefully behind his ears. “Do I have to name him now?”

Helena shrugs. “Your cat. Your choice.” She sits down next to him and pushes his sleeve up over his metal arm. He jerks back, alarmed.

“Don’t worry,” she says soothingly, petting his hair. “I’m making you beautiful.” She takes out a red marker, drawing a crude stick figure under the star. She gives it one black arm, and caps the pen, satisfied.

“That’s you,” she says, reaching for the yellow marker and drawing another stick figure next to the first. “And that’s me.”

She draws three figures that are clearly supposed to represent cats below them, all in black. She hesitates, and then reaches for the blue marker, carefully drawing another figure next to the one that represents him, with a star for a head. She draws two more figures next to the one that’s her, one full-sized in purple, and one miniature one in pink.

“There,” she says softly, putting the markers away. “Now you’ll always have family with you. You can’t leave us.”

He stares down at his arm, now covered with a rainbow. “Thank you, _sestrenka_ ,” he says quietly. “Who are the last three?”

“That’s my sister,” she says, pointing to the purple figure. “And her little girl.”

“And the blue one?”

“Your Mister Rogers,” she says quietly. “You go to the museum so often, I thought—” She breaks off. “I thought you might want him there.”

He says nothing, just smiles and pulls lightly on one of her curls.

*   *   *   *   *  

He stays at the Smithsonian all day, wandering in and out of the exhibits. He knows the words on the displays by heart by now, has the facts memorized. He can’t quite connect the facts to emotions, to events that are supposed to have meaning, no matter how hard he tries.

When he leaves, he’s no closer to unlocking his supposed memories than he was when he started.

He walks back to the loft in the dark, frustrated. He’s never going to be _Bucky_ again, barring some kind of miracle, but he keeps trying, keeps bashing his head against the brick wall in his mind like the outcome will be different this time.

It won’t be. It’s never going to change.

So what now?

He slows down as the enormity of the question envelops him. _What now?_

He has never, not once in his memory, ever had to make a long-term decision, and now, that’s the only thing in front of him. It doesn’t seem like something he can put off deciding, but he doesn’t know the first thing about decisions.

He can’t ask Helena. She wouldn’t have the faintest idea of what he should do. She might not even see why there’s a problem.

He stops walking entirely, leans against the streetlamp, and stares up at the stars.

_You’re my friend._

_Friend_.

Captain Rogers seems, if not sensible, at least like he has some idea of how to live. He might even be happy to help, considering their supposed past history.

It doesn’t seem like the world’s best idea, but it’s his only idea. He’ll go back to the loft—back home, tell Helena, figure out how to find the Captain, and go from there.

But when he gets home, Helena is not there.

The cats are there, however, and one of the them is stuck in Helena’s blankets, moving around and meowing plaintively. He goes over and helps dig them out, eventually revealing a disgruntled Sarah. She leaps out, racing across the floor, revealing a crumpled-up paper where she’d been. He picks it up, flattening it out, and freezes.

His own face is staring back at him—not the face he sees in the Smithsonian, but the face he sees in the cracked mirror in the corner, with long hair and dead eyes. There’s an address, a phone number, and a short message pleading for help in finding him.

The door opens, and Helena slips in, lighting up when Kira comes to greet her. She picks the kitten up, looks towards him, sees the paper, and stops short.

“How long,” he asks, voice rough, “have you been hiding this from me?”

She flinches back, in a way that makes his breath catch in his throat, and says “Three days.”

“Why?”

“You don’t need him,” she says, desperation in her voice. She puts Kira down and crosses to him, arms outstretched. “We are fine on our own, we are happy, you and me and the cats, we don’t need anyone, you don’t have to leave us—”

“But he’s part of the family,” he says, hand going to his arm. “You said so.”

Helena looks down, ashamed. “I thought if he was on your arm, you wouldn’t want to find him so much. That the picture would be enough.”

“I want to find him,” he says quietly. “He has answers.”

Helena is quiet for a moment, wrapping her arms around herself. “Fine,” she says, miserable. “Go.”

 He’s silent for a moment, looking down at her. “Come with me.”

She nods once, tries to smile. It’s not genuine.

But maybe it will be, in time.

*   *   *   *   *  

“I don’t like this,”

“I know you don’t,” he says, fidgeting slightly.

Helena scoffs, blowing her hair out of her face. “You don’t need him.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Helena—”

“He could be a spy,” she says. “Working for your Mister Pierce, for your _scientists_. He could turn you right over to them, he might not even care about you—”

“He was looking for me,” he says, and that’s enough.

She falls silent, pulling at her hair. “Well, then knock already.”

He stands there for a moment, staring at the door. “Helena?” he says. “Please tell me to hold your hand.”

She stares at him. “James, hold my hand,” she says eventually. He nods, grabbing on to her hand. She winces a bit at the grip but stays silent, looking up at him.

“Tell me to knock, please.”

She turns and stands on her tiptoes, putting her free hand on his cheek. “James Buchanan Barnes, you knock on that door and talk to Mister Rogers and figure things out. That’s an order.” She frowns and draws back. “And don’t leave me,” she says quietly. “That’s an order too.”

“Yes, _sestrenka_ ,” he says. She steps back to his side, holding his hand tightly. He squeezes her hand, and then pauses. Takes a deep breath. Stares up at the door.

He knocks.

**Author's Note:**

> This story now has a cool photoset to go with it, made by the lovely [girlwiththekey](http://girlwiththekey.tumblr.com/post/90442554881)!


End file.
